Dreams

Telling dreams relates to memory. How reliable is memory? especially as related to dreams? How reliable are stories? That will vary by story teller and will further vary with a given story teller within a given story. I hope the reader will believe with me that my stories are as reliable as humanly possible. I flatter myself to think that there’s a minimum of revision, especially of cosmetics, in my stories including my memories of my dreams.

Dream Talk
2017 11 24 Yesterday was Thanksgiving, the best, thanks to Jan. We went to bed early. Around 1 AM she awakened me, I was talking in my sleep, really talking: babble, babble: and I realized I’d been having an extraordinary dream, a champion: very much relating to my third novel, but to most of my writing really.
In my dream I was trying to get Charlie Parker, Bird, the 1940s jazz icon, to realize he was doing something wrong. I held my book under his nose, retraced his movements from 72nd Street to 68th Street. He was impressed, but where did I get my information? I explained, the book contained every detail from his entire life, and, complementarily, every matching detail from his colleagues life: I could show him every detail from his present, past, and future. I explained that it was God’s book, his omnipotent perspective, but that all angels also had duplicates. Yes, Bird, that’s right: so, therefore, I have to be an angel. (Or full of shit.)
And Jan awakened me. “Eye witness” is one of the parts of my babble that seemed to be English.
Unfortunately I can only recall these couple of fragments. But I bet the whole was a treasure!

Did Bird ever live in the East 60s? One (or more) of his girlfriends might. There were plenty of woman addicted to watching him with his addictions. Nica Rotheschild was Monk’s girlfriend, but Bird was there at her place a lot: as was everybody.

In this dream all angels see all things; in my novel Dark Beacon, all denizens of heaven experience and reexperient each moment from the standpoint of whoever was near them: the dentist becomes his patient, his lover, his doorman. Oh, would God the giftie gee us / To see ourselves as others see us.